


The Telephone

by Husaria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s, Cold War, Forbidden Love, Heavy Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Polish Folk Songs, Secret Police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Husaria/pseuds/Husaria
Summary: "Dwa serduszka, cztery oczy, łojojoj,Co płakały we dnie w nocy, łojojoj..."A gentle folk song reminds a scarred Poland about rye fields and love from long ago.





	The Telephone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2018 LietPol Secret Santa exchange. The prompt was **Historical**.
> 
> A link to the song is provided in the text. Please listen to it in another tab/window while you read.
> 
> Poland might be acting a bit out of character in this. This takes place sometime between 1950-1954, and thus, his behavior is influenced by the aftermath of WWII and the Communist propaganda and repressions that happened during that period. He behaves a tad more like his normal self during the telephone call.

Poland had no idea how he got here.

Black chauffeured cars owned by party leaders and higher-ups crowded the small street. Men wore nice black suits and ties and women wore dresses and white furs. Even Poland wore a white shirt and black tie. He got those on somehow.

 _“Bilety, proszę,”_ asked the footman at the entrance.

Poland dug out his ticket from his wallet. His boss gave him this.

“As you know, the Ministry of Culture and Arts has established a dance troupe to preserve the folk traditions of Mazovia,” said the Secretary General somedays ago.

“Do I?” Poland had asked dryly.

“You will attend. It’s imperative that _you_ attend.”

“Sure,” Poland mumbled and took the tickets.

“And smile. This is _you_ they’re representing.”

Yes, him. Poland. Or something that resembled him.

Poland pressed his fingers in between his eyes. Another headache. The third time today. At least they were better than the time they incapacitated him on a daily basis.

Through the fog in his mind, Poland found his row and seat. He turned the ticket over and over in his hand.

The curtains on the stage pulled back. There were no elaborate set pieces, no decorations, only a White Eagle without a crown.

Around the fifth song, Poland felt the urge to go outside for a smoke. This theater had too many people in it.

The men left the stage, leaving behind a chorus of fifteen women, wearing the striped skirts and black vests of the Łowicz region just outside of Warsaw.

The woman in the front-row center began to sing in a soft, haunting tone, the lone voice in the room:

_[“Two hearts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5fH0rn1st0) and four eyes, oh oh oh.”_

The chorus echoed, _“Oh oh oh.”_

_“Which cried day and night, oh oh oh.”_

Breathe in. 

_“Oh oh oh..”_

Breathe out.

It seemed that the past six years—no, the past century and a half—had been a never-ending chain of tears.

All of the women sang:

_“Dark eyes crying because you can’t meet,_

_Because you can’t meet.”_

Poland blinked, his mouth slightly open.

Meetings that were brief and fleeting moments in his long life. That he had been chasing but never holding for the past century and a half.

_“My mother forbade me, oh oh oh,”_

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

_“To love the boy, oh oh oh”_

Their last kiss—one fleeting act of love before Russian soldiers burst into their hideout during the 1863 Uprising and tore them apart one last time.

_“The old have love, but forbid the youth,_

_Forbid the youth, oh oh oh.”_

_I need to go back,_ Poland thought. Back when he was the ruler of Eastern Europe. Back to when they could love freely. Back to the rye. Back, back, back…

_“When the boy is handsome and charming, oh oh oh.”_

Breathe in.

 Breathe out.

_“Who would have the strength to resist him, oh oh oh.”_

If only he could hear his voice one more time, that would bring color to his world.

_“One would have a heart of stone, not to love the boy_

_Not to love the boy, oh oh oh.”_

Poland forgot the last time they had spoken a word to each other that wasn’t filled with hate or anger—

_“My mother forbade me, oh oh oh,_

_To love the boy, oh oh oh.”_

Poland’s ticket lay ripped up in his lap. He must have shredded it some time during the song.

 " _And I hold the boy in my arms, I will love him until the day I die._

_I will love him until the day I die, oh oh oh…”_

His man, husband, partner, everything—

_I will love him until the day I die._

He didn’t want a cigarette anymore. There was only one thing he wanted—and he had slipped out of Poland’s arms centuries ago.

The weight of the lyrics and the memories and the clapping around him suffocated his heart.

 _“Przepraszam,”_ he choked to the others in his row. Gentlemen and women gasped and _tutted_ rudely as he shoved their knees out of his way, vision blurry from his tears, and sprinted up the aisle, finding the side exit, and bursting out into the alley.

Poland’s heart fluttered, and he gasped for air, putting his hand against the wall and retching and sobbing. A few blocks from the theater stood what remained of his Old Town, rubble in places, the Royal Castle still fallen.

The side door opened and closed behind him.

Poland quickly wiped the tears from his face. “Wh-What the hell do you want?” he snarled.

The shadow stayed still.

“I-I’m not _stupid_.” Poland stood up. “Get over here.”

The shadow was just a kid. A damn kid, not much older than Poland looked with wide blue eyes in a round face and blond hair.

“You’re with the Ministry of Public Security,” he said flatly. “Your name is Adam Krasiński.”

“Y-You know my name?” the boy said.

“Of course, I do, _and_ I know that the MPB sent you to track me.” Poland breathed through his teeth. It took a lot to speak.

“You ran out of the theater,” said Adam. “After ‘Dwa Serduszka’. I assumed I had to follow you.”

This kid was either naïve or stupid.

“I don’t remember anything in your file about you crying a lot,” the kid continued.

And of course, he saw him crying.

“What,” growled Poland, “are you trying to interrogate me?”

“What were you crying about?”

There was no way this kid got in the MPB on merit alone. His parents were Party members, no doubt.

“That’s none of your business,” said Poland.

“Was it because of a girl?”

“Doesn’t the Party teach you to shut up?”

The kid looked as if he had seen a ghost. “You—you shouldn’t say things like that,” he hissed.

Poland wanted nothing more than to laugh cruelly, but he frowned, his eyes soft at the sight of this poor boy who knew nothing.

“So…So why did you cry?” Adam whispered. “ _Was_ it because of a girl?”

“Haven’t you read my file?” Poland said.

He took a deep breath and took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He took one out before stopping. This would be his last pack for a while. Perhaps he should conserve them.

“Chernenko?”

Poland’s eyes widened and his mouth was flat. _“Really?”_

Adam winced. “You see the Hungarian one on a yearly basis, so it can’t be her.”

“Who said anything about a _her_?”

“It’s a _man_?”

“Oh dear God.” Poland put the cigarette in his mouth and pulled out a lighter.

Adam just stared at him. Poland had no idea if he was still in shock or trying to think out his original question.

“Is it Toris Laurinaitis?”

Poland took a swig of the cigarette.

Maybe Adam wasn’t stupid after all.

“Lithuania,” Adam whispered.

“He was like health. I didn’t know him until I lost him.” Poland looked up at the blue sky, unfocused.

“I had no idea you can love a man like a woman,” said Adam.

Adam didn’t know a lot of things.

Breathe out. Poland blew a trail of smoke out of his mouth.

“Your file mentioned nothing about a… _lover_.”

Poland snorted. “He’s a man. Of course, our relationship wasn’t on there.”

Adam regarded Poland with wide eyes. “So, it’s different for your kind.”

“My kind is yours.”

“But aren’t you…?”

“Man _and_ nation.”

Poland had no idea why he was talking to this child. But when was the last time he had spoken to anyone that wasn’t out of necessity?

“I always imagined you looking a bit…differently,” said Adam.

“Imagined _who_ looked a bit differently?”

“Well…you. Our country is going to be rebuilt soon, and you…well—” Adam shrunk against the wall with each word.

“Don’t look so great,” Poland finished for him. “I haven’t felt great in a while.” He put the cigarette to his lips again.

“Then how can I make you great?”

Poland’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Adam looked away. “Never mind.”

Another shadow had entered the alley. The sunset in the west elongated the man’s shadow.

Poland shivered. “We should go back inside,” he said, putting a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Are you sure?” said Adam.

Poland’s eyes met the man’s, and he squeezed Adam’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

***

Poland stared at the same white piece of paper. He had been staring at it for three hours straight and had written nothing and done nothing with it.

“I’m here to drop off some paperwork for you, Łukasiewicz.”

Adam had entered his room and plopped a pile of papers on Poland’s desk.

Poland raised an eyebrow, looking over at generic MPB documents. “I don’t think I was supposed to get anything from the—”

A slip of paper had been clipped in the corner. It was a phone number with a Soviet calling code.

No.

“Y-You—”

“I specifically brought these to you to sign,” said Adam.

Poland blinked. “W-Why—?”

“They’re for the good of the nation.” The boy smiled softly.

Poland reached for his phone, but remembered that his office was swarming with informants.

“Maybe sign them later…”

Poland looked up at Adam with tears in his eyes.

“Th-Thank you. How could I ever…?”

Adam turned away. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I...I'll get these done today!” Poland exclaimed. It had been a while since he looked forward to something. “I swear.”

Adam never made it back to his building.

***

Poland’s fingers shook as he dialed the number. He left work early, closed his curtains, and triple-locked the door to his flat.

“You are calling the Soviet Union?”

“Yes.”

“Please hold, I’ll connect you.”

Poland twirled the cord around his fingers.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

_Click._

_“Laurinaitis.”_

Poland hadn’t heard that voice in years.

“Liet.”

Lithuania sucked in his breath.

“How did you get this number?”

“It’s you…” Poland whispered. His hand crumpled the paper with the phone number. “It’s really you.”

“Sir, I think you have the wr-wrong number.”

Lithuania gulped audibly from the other line.

“I miss you,” said Poland. “Liet, can we talk?”

“Is this really Feliks Łukasiewicz…?” Lithuania asked softly.

“Yes…” Poland said.

“Please hold.”

Poland heard the sound of a door being closed.

“I’m back.”

“It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.” Poland had to maintain his composure.

“And it’s you. Oh Feliks…”

“How’ve…you been?” What should he say?

“Me?” asked Lithuania. “Oh…I’ve been better. How about you?”

“I’ve been alright.”

The line was quiet. Lithuania moved around some papers.

“A-Are you at work?” Poland asked. “Or are you at home?”

“This is my office. How did you get this number?”

Poland gripped his phone’s cord so tight his knuckles turned white. He had wanted to say so many things to Lithuania, but now he thought of nothing—

“I’m not sure.” Poland breathed out and ran a hand over his face. “We need to talk. It’s been too long.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“That’s…true.”

“What do you want to talk about? I-I don’t think I can stay on for much longer.”

Poland’s heart clenched.

“I think still love you.”

“…You love me?”

“I—” _I love you. I love you. Kocham cię. I miss you._ _Tęsknię za tobą. I love you._ _Kocham cię. Tęsknię za tobą._ _Kocham cię, tęsknię za tobą. KOCHAM CIĘ, TĘSKNIĘ ZA TOBĄ._

“Feliks? Are you still there?”

“Wh-what? Yes.” Poland sniffed. Warm tears ran down his cheeks.

“Are you crying?”

Poland found himself laughing through the tears. “How can you always tell?”

“I think I’ve lived with you long enough to know.”

Poland wiped away some tears with a smile.

“I'm still not sure if this is the right time or place to talk,” Lithuania said.

“I know…”

“Feliks, listen. I…have so many things I want to say to you. First of all, I mi—”

The line was dead.

“Liet…?”

The line was dead.

“Liet?”

Silence.

“Liet.”

Silence.

“LIET!”

The wood of his desk cracked under his fingers, and he fell to his knees.

“LIET. LIET. NO, NO, _NIE_.”

Poland clutched the telephone to his chest, keeping that little bit of Lithuania with him, as he heaved with sobs.

Three loud knocks rang from his front door.

The line was still dead.

_“Feliks Łukasiewicz.”_

Poland’s throat and head tightened and tightened. Any feeling faded into a comfortable, fatal numbness.

He blinked. His body shuddered as he breathed in. His thoughts, so wild and passionate just a few minutes ago, settled into a familiar confused state, like radio static.

More knocks.

Poland got up and set the telephone down.

He opened the door.

Two men stood in front of him, wearing black suits.

“Come with us,” said the one on the left.

“It’ll be best if you come with us, Pan Łukasiewicz,” said the other.

Poland took one last glance at the telephone on his table and stepped forward.

**Author's Note:**

> The folk troupe mentioned is heavily inspired by the folk dance troupe, Masowsze. I had the privilege of seeing them in Warsaw when I lived there.
> 
> The Ministry of Public Security or _Ministerstwo Bezpieczeństwa Publicznego_ (MPB) was the postwar secret police and intelligence ministry of the People's Republic of Poland until 1954.
> 
>  **Translations**  
>  _Bilety, proszę_ \- Tickets, please.
> 
>  _Przepraszam_ \- Excuse me
> 
>  _Kocham cię_ \- I love you.
> 
>  _Tęsknię za tobą_ \- I miss you


End file.
